Aftermath
by ack1308
Summary: Taylor Hebert dies in the locker. But the story does not end there ...
1. Chapter 1

**Aftermath**

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><p><strong>Part 1<strong>

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><p><em>Disclaimers:<em>

_1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it._

_2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, then I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, then I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations._

_3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion._

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><p>Danny looked up at the knock on his office door. He frowned; Rosalie didn't usually bring around the coffee cart for another quarter hour. "What is it?" he called.<p>

"Mr Hebert, there's a policeman here to see you," replied his secretary. "He says it's urgent."

A sick feeling began to grow in his gut, but he tried to tamp it down._It could be any number of reasons._

"Send him in."

The door opened, and a burly uniformed officer entered. He held his cap in both hands, and seemed rather uncomfortable.

Danny rose and went around his desk.

"Danny Hebert," he introduced himself, holding out his hand, trying desperately to keep this normal, make this something inconsequential.

The policeman shook his hand. "Sergeant Livermore, BBPD," he responded. "Mr Hebert, I think you'd better sit down."

Danny found his knees going to water, and he collapsed in the chair he usually kept for visitors.

"What ... is it ... Taylor?" he choked out.

The sergeant nodded. "I'm very sorry, sir. She was admitted to the Central Hospital while I was on the way over here. The attending physician declared her dead on arrival."

Danny felt his heart racing, his vision greying out at the corners. He gasped for breath. Distantly, he heard the officer asking if he was all right. Then everything went black.

* * *

><p>He came to a few minutes later by the office clock; he had been placed in the recovery position. Kneeling over him was Fredericks, the designated first aid officer. Sergeant Livermore was standing back, watching the proceedings.<p>

"Mr Hebert, can you hear me?" asked Fredericks.

Danny nodded. "What happened?" His voice was thin and thready, even to him.

"The sergeant says you passed out. Bad news?"

"The worst," croaked Danny. He looked up at the sergeant. "How did it happen?"

Livermore shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't discuss the situation with anyone else in the room. We're treating it as a criminal case."

Danny began to get up; Fredericks pushed him back down. "Mr Hebert, you have to rest -"

"Screw that." Danny looked Fredericks in the eye. "Let me up or you're fired."

Fredericks got up, looking hurt. Danny clambered to his feet, accepting a hand from Livermore as he did so. He found himself a little wobbly on his feet, but kept his balance.

"Can I see her?" he asked.

Livermore nodded. "I'm authorised to ask you if you're able to come in to the hospital now, to make the identification."

Danny nodded. "I can do that."

* * *

><p>The moment Danny was in the police cruiser, with the belt fastened and the car in motion, he turned to Livermore. "Okay, we're alone. What the hell happened to my little girl?"<p>

Livermore pursed his lips. "It looks like a school-type prank taken way too far, sir. She was shut into her own locker, along with what looks like toxic waste of some sort."

"A _prank?" _demanded Danny, his voice rising. "What the hell sort of prank is _that?"_

"The type that leads to criminal charges, sir."

"So how did she die from being shut in her _locker?"_

"Now that, sir, I am not sure about. The doctor will be able to tell you more."

"Okay, so what happens to the people who did it?"

"We are pursuing our inquiries. Everyone who was, or might have been, in that hallway at that time will be interviewed. When we find out the culprit or culprits, we will be prosecuting with the full weight of the law."

"So you don't know who did it."

"Not yet, sir. But so very few of our cases start with us knowing all the details. It's why we have investigative procedures, sir."

"So what will they be charged with? Murder?"

"Potentially, sir. Frankly, it may end up being argued down to negligent homicide in court, with a good enough lawyer. But time will tell."

Danny found that his fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were digging into his palms. He forced them to relax.

"But Taylor is dead. My daughter is dead."

"I'm afraid so, sir. I am very sorry."

Danny leaned his head against the cool glass of the car window. "Christ."

* * *

><p>The still white form lay on the sterile metal table. Danny thought his knees were going to buckle again, but he took a deep breath and stiffened his spine. "Show me."<p>

The doctor folded back the sheet, revealing Taylor's face, still and blank in repose. A small cut on her forehead had been cleaned; her eyes were closed. Her hair was arranged neatly around her head.

"That ... that's my daughter," he managed. "That's Taylor. What ... what happened to her? Why did she die? The sergeant said she was shut in a locker. Did she suffocate?"

The doctor shook his head. "No, sir," he responded. Carefully, he placed the sheet back over Taylor's face. "If you would care to sit down, Mr Hebert ...?"

Danny sat once more. The table was still there, in his peripheral vision, with Taylor's sheet-covered form on it, but he focused his attention on the doctor. "Tell me."

The doctor took a deep breath. "I believe, from the visible symptoms, she suffered a massive onset of toxic shock syndrome. There are wounds all over her hands and arms, as well as her knees, from repeated impacts with a hard surface."

"The inside of her locker," Danny guessed.

"That is our supposition, yes. She was sharing the locker with some extremely vile material containing old, rotted blood, as well as potentially pathogen-bearing insects. This material got into the wounds, and the toxins were quickly transported around the body. The estimate is that she was in the locker for the best part of three hours. This was long enough for a reaction to set in."

Danny put his face in his hands. _"Christ."_

He could only imagine what her last hours, her last minutes had been like; shut in a stinking hellhole, feeling the toxins spreading through her body, knowing she was dying ...

Abruptly, he bent over and threw up. Everything that he had eaten in the last twelve hours came up; by the time he was straining at bile, there was a bucket under his chin, and an orderly was already mopping up the mess.

"Are you feeling better, sir?"

Danny glared at the doctor, but accepted the damp cloth to wipe his chin.

"My daughter is dead due to a vicious, misguided, psychopathic school prank. What part of 'better' applies to that, exactly?"

The doctor shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I've seen cases come through here ... this is one of the worst. And that's saying something."

_For Brockton Bay, yes. _Danny knew what he meant.

He stood up, suffering the orderly to run the mop over his shoes. "Can I have a drink of water?"

The drink was not long in coming. He sipped it, then washed his mouth out and spat the residue into the sink.

"Now," he growled, "I'm going to the school.

"I'm going to get some _answers."_

* * *

><p>Sophia Hess watched the police and emergency workers; some of the former were interviewing the faculty, while others were talking to random students. The emergency workers were cleaning up the crap that had spilled from Taylor's locker.<p>

Beside her, Emma whispered, "They say she was _dead!"_

Sophia shrugged slightly. "Shows how much of a wimp she was." Inside, her guts were churning; she'd never killed someone in such a way before. It hadn't been deliberate, but it still sent a thrill down her spine. She didn't know whether to be terrified or elated.

Madison, on the other side of Emma, said nothing; she just watched the scene with frightened eyes.

The phone on Sophia's hip vibrated; she jumped, and then relaxed. Pulling the phone out of its holder, she accepted the call. "Sophia."

_"Miss Hess." _The voice was that of Deputy Director Renick. _"Please make your way to a secure location and return this call."_

"Sure thing, Mom." She shut the call off, turned to Emma and Madison, and inclined her head toward the stairwell. "Gotta go tinkle," she lied. "Let me know if anything happens."

Making her way up two flights of stairs to get to the bathrooms was, as always, a pain. But it almost guaranteed that no-one else would be up here. They were all watching the freakshow downstairs.

She checked every cubicle to make sure they were empty before locking herself into the last one. Then she dialled the number back.

_"Renick."_

"It's me."

_"Ah, good. We heard about the death at your school. Did you see what happened?"_

"Ah, no, sir. I was in class. Why?"

_"Why? You're a **Ward**. You're supposed to **help **the police in matters like this."_

"Sir, I'm not very good at investigative matters. And if Shadow Stalker suddenly shows up to help out, then people might start wondering."

_" ... you have a point. Well, keep your eyes and ears open, and if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, report it to the police at once."_

"Of course, sir."

_"Very good. We'll give you a more thorough debriefing when you report in, this evening. It looks bad, having someone die in a school that a Ward is attending."_

"Understood, sir."

_"Well, I'll let you get back to it. Remember; anything unusual."_

"Got it, sir."

He hung up; Sophia shut her phone down, then leaned back against the toilet tank with a silent sigh.

_Dodged a bullet there._

She found herself suddenly needing to use the facilities; she did so, then washed her hands before going back downstairs to rejoin the others.

Emma glanced at her; Sophia shrugged.

They went back to watching the police and emergency services.

* * *

><p>End of Part 1<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Aftermath**

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><p><strong>Part 2<strong>

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><p>The Hebert house was still and silent, save for the restless movements upstairs in the main bedroom.<p>

Downstairs, there was evidence that all was not well. One of the kitchen chairs lay broken against the wall, beneath the mark of its impact on the wall, at head height. Small ornaments in the living room were shattered, including the TV, which had the remote still protruding from a ragged hole in the screen. Back in the kitchen, broken glass lay on the ground beneath a large splash-mark, perhaps tomato paste, on the wall.

Danny Hebert tried to sleep. He managed to do anything but. His motions as he tossed and turned were erratic, driven by his inner torment.

In the one moment, he saw Taylor as she had been, happy, smiling, laughing. Then in the next, he saw her still, lifeless body on the morgue table, eyes closed, the small cut on her forehead. And in the third, his imagination took over, seeing her as she would have been in the locker, screaming, hitting the door, crying out for him. And he never came for her.

_I failed her. When she most needed me, I failed her._

He remembered the confrontation ...

* * *

><p>"What do you mean,<em>you don't know?"<em>

Principal Blackwell recoiled as Danny Hebert's fist crashed down on the desk, rattling pens and causing a stapler to fall off the edge. "Now, Mr Hebert ..."

Danny took hold of the edge of her desk. For a moment, she looked as though she thought he was going to flip it over on top of her. For a moment, he really wanted to try. "Have you even _tried_finding out? Fucking_seriously?"_

Blackwell tried to lean back away from him without appearing to do so. "The police are investigating -"

This time, he did shove the desk back at her; it scraped over the carpet. "You've got to be fucking_kidding_me! You aren't even_trying_to find out, are you? Covering up just as hard as you can, aren't you?" He shoved the desk again; despite his skinny frame, he managed to move it a few more inches. "Well understand this. I have a friend in the media. If things don't change, then everything comes out._All_of it."

"Mr Hebert." Despite her best efforts at control, Principal Blackwell's voice was shaking with ... what? Fear? Anger? "If you do not leave immediately, I will call the police."

"Yeah," he growled. "You_do_that." He stalked around the desk; Blackwell stood up hastily. When they were just a yard apart, he leaned in menacingly. "One week."

"W-what?"

_"One. Week."_He lowered his voice. "If this shit is not sorted in_one fucking week,_my friend in the media gets_everything._And I will be sure to contact_every single parent_with a child in Winslow. See how your precious school holds up_then."_

* * *

><p>He turned and left, the door slamming behind him. Blackwell slumped into her chair opened a desk drawer, pulled out a packet of antacid pills, and dry-swallowed half a dozen.<p>

_I'm not covering anything up. But how can I make him understand this? Fuck._

* * *

><p>Outside, in the corridor, Danny was heading for the open air, for freedom. A teenage boy intercepted him.<p>

"Uh ... sir?"

Danny glared at him. "What the fuck do_you_want?"

The boy gulped. "I - uh - you're_her_father, aren't you? T-Taylor's?"

Danny glowered. The kid was gawky, nerdy. He didn't need this shit. But then, this kid was the first person who had approached_him_in the school.

"Do you know something?"

"I, uh, I might." The boy swallowed, and glanced around. "T-Taylor, I think she was being bullied -"

Danny rolled his eyes. "What_fucking_led you to that conclusion, Einstein?" he demanded. "The fact that she was locked in her locker, or the fact that she fucking_died_in there?"

"Uh, Greg, sir. Greg Veder."

Danny shook his head in puzzlement. "What?"

"N-not Einstein, sir. My name's Greg Veder. I had World Affairs class with her."

Danny took a deep breath. The kid was actually starting to make sense. "And you were her friend?"

Greg Veder shrugged slightly. "I wanted to be. But she didn't really like me, I guess."

Danny ignored that. "So what makes you think she was being bullied?"

"A, uh, couple of girls in her class, they used to do things like put glue or juice on her chair or desk," stammered Greg. "Took her homework away and pretended it was theirs. Stuff like that."

Danny leaned closer, menacingly._"Names,"_he gritted.

Greg looked like he was on the verge of wetting himself. "Uh, uh, uh, you should ask Mr Gladly," he tried to temporise. "He teaches that class."

Danny made a mental note. "I will. But I'm asking_you. Here. Now."_

Greg closed his eyes and tried not to whimper. "J-Julia. And M-Madison."

"Surnames?"

"Madison's surname is Clements, I think. Not sure about Julia's. Morrow? Something like that?"

Danny took a deep breath. At last, something he could vent his rage at. "Anything else?"

Greg shook his head. "No, no, really. It's all I know."

"Good," growled Danny. "Thanks. And I might just be telling the police to ask you some questions, so don't go forgetting what you've just told me."

"I - I won't," Greg stammered, and made his escape. Danny watched him hasten off down the hallway.

_Madison Clements and Julia somebody. Mr Gladly's class. Right._

He turned and walked away.

* * *

><p>Neither Greg nor Danny saw the unfriendly eyes that observed their meeting.<p>

Once they were both out of sight, Sophia Hess emerged from the classroom and looked thoughtfully after Greg.

_I wonder what he told him._

_I might have to ask him some serious questions._

* * *

><p>In his bed, Danny was just slipping into a restless doze when a whisper awoke him. He sat bolt upright, eyes open wide.<p>

The whisper came again.

_"... dad?"_

"Taylor!" he called out. "Taylor!"

_" ... dad?"_

"Taylor! Where are you?" He lunged out of the bedroom, checked hers, checked the bathroom, checked downstairs, tripping over furniture in the dark.

He didn't find her.

And then he stilled his breathing, staring into the darkness.

"Taylor?"

_" ... dad? I don't know where I am ..."_

He found an intact kitchen chair, set it upright. Sat in it.

"Taylor? Are you real? Talk to me."

_" ... I don't know, dad. I don't know where I am."_

The whispered voice faded away.

Danny called out to her, begged, pleaded. To no avail.

Eventually, he went back to bed. But there was one thought fixed in his mind.

_Taylor's alive. Somehow. Somewhere._

_And I'll find her._

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><p>End of Part 2<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Aftermath**

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><p><strong>Part 3<strong>

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><p><strong>Tuesday<strong>

* * *

><p>Senior Sergeant Don Garbutt blamed Hollywood; specifically, he blamed the movies and TV shows that portrayed police as being bumbling and incompetent, where untrained civilians were able to uncover salient facts about an ongoing investigation and save the day.<p>

_It's as if the investigative techniques we've developed over the last hundred years are just optional extras. Any major case comes up, you get wackos coming out of the woodwork, convinced that they have the solution well in hand._

Those were the irritating ones. And then you just got the sad ones.

Such as the one he was faced with, this chilly Tuesday morning.

"So if I understand what you're saying, Mr Hebert," he offered patiently, "you believe that you know who's responsible for your daughter being in that locker. Is that right?"

"Yes!" Danny Hebert probably wasn't an excitable man under ordinary circumstances. But the day after the death of one's only daughter could not be counted as 'ordinary'. "I've got a name! Two names!"

"And these names are ...?"

"Madison Clements," recited Danny crisply. "And Julia ... somebody. I don't know her last name. He couldn't tell me."

"Who couldn't tell you, sir?"

"His name's Greg somebody ... Veder, I think. I don't know how it's spelled. But he's - he was - in the same World Affairs class with her, and with the other two girls. Mr Gladly teaches that class, I think he said."

"We can definitely check all that out, sir," Sergeant Garbutt assured him, writing the names down. "So, this Veder boy, what did he say the connection was between your daughter and these other girls?"

Danny's voice was flat. "He said they were bullying her. Putting stuff on her seat, stealing her work, being mean to her."

The police officer looked perceptively at him. "And she never told you about this?"

Danny shook his head helplessly. "I never knew. We used to talk all the time. These days ...". He trailed off, defeated.

"Does her mother know about the bullying?"

Danny Hebert jerked as if he had been slapped. His voice rose. "What, you don't _know?"_

Sergeant Garbutt knew that he'd just committed a faux pas, but he wasn't sure quite what. "Know about what, sir?"

"My wife's dead. She's been dead for nearly three years. It was a car accident. You're investigating my daughter's murder, and you don't know this?"

"Sir, I'm not part of that investigation. All I know is that it happened.". _Christ,_ he thought. _Losing both his wife and his kid inside of three years. Poor bastard._

Danny took a deep breath, and composed himself. "Okay. Sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice like that. But what are you going to do about it?"

"About the allegations of bullying? We'll look into the matter, of course."

"But he _said_ -"

"Mr Hebert." Senior Sergeant Garbutt might be a desk-bound cop, but he'd done his time on the streets, and he still knew how to put the snap of command in his voice. "This Veder boy could be mistaken. He could be lying, to get them in trouble, or to take the heat off of someone else, or even off of himself."

Danny was silent, thinking about his words. Garbutt forged on. "Police work isn't like in the movies, or on TV, sir. We rarely get a single case-breaking clue handed to us just in time for the wrap-up and credits. It usually involves days, weeks or even months of painstaking work, running down leads, interviewing people, identifying suspects, getting warrants and building cases."

He took a deep breath. "Now, what you've just passed on to us is very likely quite significant, but exactly _what_ it signifies has yet to be determined. Do you understand, sir?"

Slowly, Danny nodded. "Yes. Thank you. I appreciate it.". He pushed the chair back, went to stand.

"Ah, just a word, Mr Hebert."

Danny halted his movement. "What?"

Garbutt's voice was almost gentle. "One of the things that _can_ derail an investigation like this is having untrained amateurs going around asking their own questions. That sort of thing can muddy the waters, and make it almost impossible to catch the real perpetrators. Do you understand what I'm trying to say, sir?"

Danny Hebert was silent for a long moment. "You're telling me in the politest possible terms to butt out and let you do your job."

"Well, to not put too fine a point on it, Mr Hebert – yes."

Danny's shoulders slumped slightly. "Message received and understood. I'll be getting out of your way, then."

Standing, he made his way from the interview room. Garbutt watched him go, then checked over the notes he had taken. _Well, it's definitely a potential lead._

Pulling out his phone, he called up a number and hit speed-dial.

* * *

><p><strong>Monday Night<strong>

* * *

><p>Greg Veder sat at the computer in his bedroom, typing industriously, chatting to his online buddies in his persona of XxVoid_CowboyxX.<p>

He frowned. From the talk on the board, it looked like his favourite free-to-play online game wasn't going to be on for much longer. This was a problem; he needed something to play, to get good at, to learn the cheat codes for, to chat to his online buddies about.

Browsing the PHO boards, commiserating with the other players, he caught a mention of something called Space Opera.

_What's that?_ he wondered.

A quick online search garnered him a description of the game's premise and how it was played. Intrigued, he clicked through the links till he found a site that he could download his end of the game from.

With a sense of satisfaction, he clicked the link, then started checking back. _Hints and tips. Need hints and tips._. Some small part of his mind registered the tiny rustle of noise behind him, but he didn't pay attention.

At least, not until the hand went over his mouth from behind.

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday<strong>

* * *

><p>Detective Dana McAllister leaned back in her chair as she answered her mobile.<p>

"Oh, hey, Donny. What's cooking?"

_"You're working the Hebert homicide, right? The girl in the locker?"_

"Yeah, that's me. Joy. We're interviewing the rugrats as fast as we can process them through, but nothing's popped yet. Why?"

_"Because I might just have something for you. A couple of names and an allegation of bullying."_

Detective McAllister sat upright in her chair. "You have my attention."

* * *

><p><strong>Monday Night<strong>

* * *

><p>"Be very quiet," hissed a voice in his ear. "Do not raise your voice. Do not call out. Do you understand me?"<p>

Very cautiously, Greg nodded.

"Good. I'm going to take my hand away now."

The iron-hard grip relaxed, and the hand came away from his mouth.

"Can I – can I turn around?" he whispered.

"Slowly," the voice growled.

Very cautiously, he turned … and his jaw dropped.

"Oh my god," he blurted. "it's _you!"_

The menacing form of Shadow Stalker, seeming to spread darkness even in the brightly-lit room, leaned in; he drew back.

Her voice was a venomous hiss. _"Shut. The. Hell. Up."_

He shut up.

She seemed to relax slightly. "Better. Now, what do you mean by 'it's you'?"

He tried to keep his voice to a whisper, but it wasn't easy. "It's _you!_ Shadow Stalker! I mean, you were badass before you joined the Wards, but now … " His voice trailed off; he fumbled on his desk for his phone. "Can I get a picture, to prove I met you, that you were in my – urk!"

He suddenly felt himself being rammed back against his computer desk, her hand tight on his throat. The strength went out of him; he did not even have the courage to struggle.

"I'm not here for _photo opportunities."_ The venomous hiss was back. "I'm here investigating a murder. I understand you know something about it."

"M-murder?" he gulped, his Adam's apple constricted by her tight grip. "Oh, uh, you mean Taylor?"

_"__Yes."_ Her grip loosened slightly. "What do you know about it?"

"Oh, uh, nothing really. Just that … those girls … they were bullying Taylor, and I thought they might have had something to -"

He choked momentarily as she squeezed his throat again.

_"__Which girls?"_ As if in afterthought, she relaxed her grip so that he could answer.

He had to cough a couple of times before he could speak properly. "Uh, uh, Madison Clements and her friend, Julia. I've seen them in Mr Gladly's classroom, playing mean tricks on her, and -"

The contempt in her voice was plain. "And you never stepped in? Never intervened?"

He hung his head in shame, as much as he was able with her hand on his throat. "No, I, uh -" _Didn't want to become a target myself._ But he couldn't say it; it sounded cowardly.

"Never mind." She seemed to think matters over.

Her grip relaxed; she took her hand off of his throat. He inhaled, wondered if his throat would have bruises. _Yeah, dude, that's where Shadow Stalker interrogated me. No shit, man, she was all up in my grille._

She spoke again, low and deadly, and his attention focused abruptly. "Madison and Julia, and anyone else who might have had dealings with Taylor at the school, are not the issue here."

"But -"

She quieted him with a gesture toward his throat; he shut up. "I am asking for _your help_ here, Veder. You want to help the Protectorate, don't you? You want to help find Taylor's killer?"

Dumbly, he nodded. Excitement built in his chest.

"Here's the deal. Danny Hebert's dealings with the Dockworkers' Association aren't squeaky clean; they never have been. He's pissed off some very well-connected criminal types. Taylor was killed like that to send a message; if he keeps going the way he is, he's next. And that they can get to him anywhere, just like they got to Taylor."

His eyes were wide open now, as he tried to absorb what she was telling him. Criminal conspiracies in Brockton Bay's underworld, shady dealings coming to light, Taylor an innocent victim – this was like the best movie ever!

Except, of course, that Taylor was dead.

"How … how can I help?" he whispered.

"Keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut about what I've just told you. You're gonna keep a lookout on matters in the school for me. Anything out of the ordinary, you let me know."

"Uh, how'm I going to -"

"You don't contact me. I contact you. And just remember. Anyone who might've been ragging on the girl a bit – they're just a smokescreen. You know who _really_ killed her."

"So do you want me to tell -"

She shook her head impatiently. _"Tell no-one._ If this gets out, it could wreck the whole case. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Good. Keep your eyes and ears open; I'll be watching."

And with that, she turned to smoke and threw herself at the closed window. The curtains barely stirred at her passage.

Moments later, his mother looked into the room.

"Was that you I heard talking just now, dear?" she asked.

"Uh, I just got off the phone," he lied.

She nodded. "All right. Don't stay up too much later. It _is_ a school night, after all."

"Okay, Mom."

She stepped into the room, bent down to give him a hug and a kiss on top of his head, then left once more.

Greg turned to his computer and opened a private chat with his online buddies.

_Dudes,_ he typed. _You are __**never**__ gonna believe what just happened to me ..._

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday<strong>

* * *

><p>"Well, well, well," mused Dana McAllister. "Thanks, Donny." She put her phone down and typed the name <em>Clements, M<em> into her computer. It accessed the infodump that had been handed over to the Brockton Bay PD by the harassed Princpal Blackwell, and pulled up the yearbook picture for 2010.

Dana considered the sweetly smiling picture. _Looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth._

It didn't make a difference; she didn't care what they looked like. If they were guilty, she'd arrest them.

There were several girls called Julia in that year; McAllister looked around until she found the class lists, cross-referenced them against the teacher's name – _Gladly, right_ – and ended up with the class list for that particular World Affairs class.

It contained, not very much to her surprise, Greg Veder, Taylor Hebert, Madison Clements, and a Julia Morrow.

_Well, they're both in the class, just like he told Danny Hebert. But that doesn't prove anything._

She swivelled her chair to address the stocky man who sat at his own desk, a few yards away.

"Joe, how you going with those interviews?"

Detective Sergeant Joseph Farrel grimaced. "Be getting through them faster if people didn't stop interrupting me for status reports."

"Sorry." She didn't mean it, and they both knew it, but at least she had the grace to pretend. "Need to know if you've spoken to a Clements, first name Madison."

He leafed through the copious manila folders on his desk. "Yeah. Got her right here."

"How about Julia Morrow? Or Greg Veder?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Nowhere near the M's yet."

She shrugged. "Win some, lose some. Bump 'em to the top of your list, will you? Also, a teacher, Gladly. We need to see if he witnessed bullying behaviour in his World Affairs class, directed at the Hebert girl, and who was doing it."

"No problem, boss." He held up the folder. "Want it?"

"Yeah, thanks." She accepted it, and leafed through it. "Huh. Pretty bland. 'Didn't know her that well. Tried to be friends, but she wasn't that sociable.'"

"According to the other interviews, she's one of the very few who even bothered to try," commented Farrel. "Most everyone else so far's just said, 'Taylor who?' or some variant thereof."

"Thereof," snickered McAllister. "Trying to better yourself, Farrel?"

"Hey, just because I read books with more words than pictures -" he retorted with a grin.

"Interesting thing to note," she stated, cutting him off, "is that the dad says the Veder kid approached him and told him that the Clements girl was bullying her. And now she says in police interview that she was trying to be her friend? It doesn't add up."

"Maybe she was, and the Veder kid mistook it for bullying? Me and Frank beat each other around a bit sometimes."

McAllister shook her head. "You're a guy. Guys show affection differently. And what Donny told me, it wasn't friendly ragging. No, I want to hear what the Morrow girl's got to say, and if the Veder kid is happy to repeat what he told Hebert."

Joe nodded. "On it."

"Good." McAllister turned back to her own computer and started calling up other photos with Madison Clements tagged on them; she was looking for outdoor candid shots, such as might be taken at sports events.

_If she was really trying to be friends with the Hebert girl, then maybe they're in one of these photos together._

She didn't find a single match. But she did find something else, the significance of which would escape her for a little while yet.

Police work, by its nature, was long and tedious. She kept at it.

* * *

><p><strong>Monday Night<strong>

* * *

><p>Shadow Stalker drifted on the breeze, away from the Veder house. <em>And the moron goes online and starts blabbing it to all his buddies. Am I a genius or what?<em>

She smiled coldly, under her mask. _All I've got to do now is wait for the story to spread, and the police won't know what to believe. And if they're looking at her father for other stuff, they're less likely to believe anything he says._

The fact that her ploy, if successful, would likely ruin a good man's career did not even enter her thinking.

She paused on a rooftop, glancing around for the next vantage point to leap from.

_…__. sophiaaaa ..._

She spun around, loosing a crossbow bolt at a fleeting shadow. The bolt passed right through and disappeared in the night.

"What the fuck … no. I did not hear that."

But telling herself that was one thing. Believing it was entirely another.

And the cold sweat down her back did little to convince her.

* * *

><p>End of Part 3<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Aftermath**

* * *

><p><strong>Part 4<strong>

* * *

><p>Dana McAllister cleared her throat. "The time is three forty-five PM. The date is Tuesday the fourth of January. This is Detective McAllister, speaking to Julia Morrow on the subject of the death of Taylor Hebert."<p>

She stopped the recorder, and replayed her words. They came through loud and clear. She restarted the recorder, and looked at the girl sitting across the table from her. "Now, Julia – may I call you Julia?"

The kid shrugged. "Free country," she allowed.

_Attitude. Right._

"Thank you, Julia. Now, I'd just like you to understand that you aren't in any trouble. I'm just interviewing you as a potential witness for anything that may have led up to Ms Hebert's unfortunate demise."

"Don't you mean murder?" blurted out Julia.

Dana frowned slightly. "I'm sorry. What do you mean?"

Julia waved her hands. "People are talking about Taylor's death like it's a murder, right? Isn't that how you're looking at this?"

The detective shook her head slightly. "We don't have enough information to go on yet. If the person or persons who put her in the locker intended for her to die, then that would count as murder, yes. But if the intent was simply to imprison her for a little while, then it becomes negligent homicide."

"But they go to jail both ways, right?"

Dana nodded. "Negligent homicide still carries a prison term, yes. But as I said, we don't have enough information either way. And in any case, I'm just trying to get any information that you yourself knew about Taylor's social situation."

"Oh." Julia seemed oddly disappointed. Dana knew the signs; here was someone whose view of the police had been shaped by Hollywood.

She smiled, to put the girl at ease. "So; how well did you know Taylor?"

* * *

><p>Julia was on guard, despite the friendly smile. <em>Madison said they didn't know anything, but it's a bit weird that I've jumped the line.<em>

Her attempt to get more information had failed – not really surprisingly, all things considered – but she knew what Madison had said, and so she knew what she had to say.

"Oh, not that well," she told the detective. "She was a little bit of a loner. But Madison and me, we kind of tried to talk to her, be on her side, you know?"

McAllister noted something on her pad, and Julia had to restrain herself from trying to crane her neck to see what was being written.

"This would be Madison Clements, yes?" asked the detective, with barely a pause.

_Wow, she must have a good memory._ "Uh, yeah, yeah, that's her."

The detective put down her pen. "What classes did you have with her?"

"Oh, uh, World Affairs, a few others."

McAllister tilted her head slightly. "Did she have problems with anyone in the class? Or did anyone have any problems with her, do you know? Did anyone speak to you about her?"

Julia felt ice creeping down her spine. "Uh – no, no, not really," she stammered, before inspiration bloomed before her eyes. "Except -"

The detective picked up on it immediately. "Except what, Julia?"

Pretending reluctance, she paused. "I'm really not sure … I don't want to get him in trouble … "

Steel entered McAllister's voice. "Julia, I need to know who you're talking about, and why."

"It's … it's, um, Greg Veder," Julia 'confessed'. "He's a bit creepy, you know? Always wanting to partner with Taylor. Always trying to get close to her, to talk to her."

"Greg Veder," murmured the detective, scribbling on the pad. She looked up at Julia. "Just that?"

Julia shook her head. "No, he … I think he was stalking her. Emails and stuff. She used to talk about creepy emails she was getting. And I saw him watching her as we were packing up to leave class one day. This little creepy smile on his face. Like he knew something I didn't."

Now she was making stuff up off the top of her head, but McAllister seemed to be eating it up.

"That's very interesting, Julia," the detective noted, writing some more. "Do you know if he followed her out of school, or if this was strictly an in-school thing?"

Julia decided her lies had gone on far enough. "I have no idea," she stated. "I never rode the bus with either Taylor or Greg."

McAllister nodded. "That's understandable. So, about your other classes ..."

* * *

><p>Don Garbutt looked across the table at Greg Veder. McAllister had filled him in on the information she had gotten from the Morrow kid. Apparently it bore out what the Clements girl had told her, and also cast doubt on what Veder had told Danny Hebert.<p>

_Kid doesn't look like a pervert. But you never can tell._

"So, Greg," he began. "Why don't you tell me what you know about Taylor Hebert."

Greg swallowed. "Um, she's always been kind of lonely." He ducked his head slightly. "She's nice to me. Doesn't make fun of me." Visibly, he corrected himself. "Uh, _didn't_ make fun."

"So you liked her then?" Garbutt's voice was studiously neutral.

Greg nodded jerkily. "Yeah, kinda. It made me mad when -"

Don Garbutt waited for him to finish, but he didn't.

"Greg? Made you mad when what?"

* * *

><p>Greg gulped. Shadow Stalker had told him that the people who caused trouble for Taylor weren't the real problem here. And he'd nearly told the police sergeant about them. That could make the police look in all the wrong places. <em>Could I be arrested for telling police stuff that makes them fail to get the real perpetrator?<em>

"Greg?" asked the cop again.

"I, uh, never mind," Greg tried to evade.

Sergeant Garbutt's voice was hard. "'Never mind' what, Greg?"

Greg hung his head. "Madison and Julie," he mumbled. "They played tricks on her." His head came up again. "But they aren't the real problem."

"Why aren't they the real problem?"

The words came out before he could stop them. "Because they had nothing to do with Taylor's death."

If he'd thought he had Senior Sergeant Garbutt's full attention before, he had been sadly mistaken. But he certainly had it _now._ The police sergeant's voice was hard and sharp, and impossible to ignore. "And you believe you know who had something to do with her death?"

Greg floundered. "I – uh - "

_Shadow Stalker told me not to tell anyone. Oh shit._

Garbutt was leaning forward. "Greg, if you have something to say, then it's best that you say it now. You aren't in trouble, but withholding information from a police officer _is_ a crime."

_I don't want to get arrested._

_Maybe it's okay to tell the police about this._

Greg raised his eyes to the sergeant's. "I, uh, heard that it wasn't any of the students at Winslow at all," he reported dully. "That her father's into some shady stuff, and this was a warning to him to stay out of their business."

Garbutt blinked.

* * *

><p>"You're <em>shitting<em> me," exclaimed Dana McAllister. "Fucking _organised crime?_ How does _that_ fit into this?"

Garbutt shrugged. "I have zero fucking idea," he replied. "But I asked him, and the best he could tell me was that a cape told him in absolute secrecy. A hero, too. But he wouldn't tell me who."

McAllister frowned. "Think he's making the whole thing up?"

Garbutt shook his head. "Doesn't make sense. He believes it. Kid's got enough tells that a blind man would know when he's lying. If it's a line of bull, then someone fed him a line of bull, and that someone's a cape, or someone he thought was a cape."

"This is getting to be more than a simple homicide," muttered McAllister. "Did you at least get a read on Clements and Morrow from him?"

He nodded. "He didn't want to say much, apart from 'they didn't do it', but he did say he used to get mad about them playing tricks on her, quote unquote."

McAllister leaned back in her chair. "Okay, so now we have what? A teenage girl forced into her locker with a mess of crap, dies from toxic shock syndrome. This Veder kid tells her father that the Clements girl and her friend were bullying her. They say they were her best friends. And now Veder's telling us that they had nothing to do with her death, and that her dad is involved with organised crime."

Garbutt rubbed his jaw. "Hm. I got a pal in Vice; I'll look to see if this Dock Workers' Association has anything on it."

McAllister nodded. "Probably nothing, but we have to check it out. Also, drop a line to the PRT, ask them if they're doing any investigating on that front. Think you'd be able to get a name out of the Veder kid if you pushed him?"

A shake of the head. "He clammed up pretty fast when I tried. He just insists that the bullying had nothing to do with it."

"Still, my gut says it does. Follow the cape angle. I'll keep on with the interviews."

Garbutt threw her a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am!"

She wrinkled her nose. "Get outta here."

He got.

* * *

><p>Taylor Hebert … drifted.<p>

She didn't know where she was at any one moment. She felt … stretched. Wispy. As if she were about to disintegrate at any moment.

But she was almost fully conscious now; for the last twenty-four hours, she had gradually been emerging from a fog of unawareness. Sometimes she had been more lucid than normal; sometimes, less so.

Once, she had seen her father. Spoken to him. He had answered. But she had been slipping away even then, and had not been able to answer his impassioned pleas.

Another time, she had seen Sophia, or at least she had believed it to be Sophia. She had moved the same way. But the wind had swept her away again.

She was beginning to be able to exert more control on what she was, now. Gradually, she was starting to make out where she was, here and there. Brockton Bay landmarks made themselves known to her. She could focus her attention here and there; sometimes, it was easy, but sometimes it was very difficult indeed.

With consciousness came memory. She feared that she would never recall the last day or more in any great detail, but it was what had come before that she recalled vividly.

The school.

The locker.

The stinking mess.

The shove.

The locker closing.

The thrashing to be free.

The feeling of lassitude.

The sensation of her mind leaving her body.

_I died,_ she told herself. _I died in that locker._

Taylor and Danny had never been particularly religious, and she had trouble parsing the concept of life after death.

_Am I a ghost?_

But she didn't seem to be composed of _anything,_ non-corporeal or not. Her consciousness seemed to drift from place to place, but there were limits and boundaries.

And then it clicked; the metaphorical lightbulb came on.

_I didn't realise that my eyesight is terrible, _she told herself. _I'm used to having bad eyesight. But my hearing isn't much better, and my hearing's always been pretty good._

_I'm seeing and hearing through the eyes and ears of …_

Suddenly, she realised exactly why, wherever her mind went, she had seen bugs flying and crawling around her viewpount.

_Bugs._

* * *

><p>Taylor Hebert's body was dead. But her mind, in the moments before death, had shifted into the Swarm. As it moved around the city, each individual bug mind supporting a minute fraction of the consciousness of Taylor Hebert, she gradually began to exert control over it.<p>

Slowly, ever so slowly, it began to move with purpose. With intent.

_Okay, what do I do now?_

* * *

><p>End of Part 4<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Aftermath**

* * *

><p>Part Five<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday Afternoon<strong>

* * *

><p>Karen Bright had been a receptionist at the Brockton Bay PRT building for three years now, and she'd thought that she had seen it all. Visiting heroes, apprehended villains, new capes, people who <em>thought<em> they were new capes. Even crazies who wanted to rail against the 'evil' that parahuman powers brought into the world.

That last one made her snort; she'd seen parahumans band together to fight Endbringers and natural disasters alike. She had a good job, here, as a direct result of the parahuman presence in Brockton Bay. _Evil, indeed._

But she had to admit, the guy who had just approached her desk brought the weirdness to a whole new level.

"Okay, sir," she responded, in her most soothing 'keep the crazy guy happy' voice, while she nudged the floor-button to alert the guards to the fact that something was up, "can you please take it from the top? You want to talk to a parahuman expert, because you want to know if it's possible for someone to die, get powers, and become a ghost?"

The guy was tall, skinny, and wore glasses. He also hadn't changed clothes, combed his hair, or shaved in the last day or two.

"Not a ghost," he insisted. "I don't believe in ghosts. But my daughter _died,_ and last night I heard her voice. Talking to me. And I want to know if it's possible for powers to do that."

"Well," she hedged, "it's quite possible for powers to make someone hear voices at a distance -"

"After they're dead?" he interrupted.

"Sometimes people with powers can use them to fake their deaths really well … " she began.

"No!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the counter. "She's _dead!_ I saw her _body!_ She _died_ in pain, in terror, in filth, and I -"

Karen saw a PRT guard approach the guy from behind; the others were standing off, one with a foam dispenser deployed, ready for possible action. "Sir," the one guard snapped. "Please step away from the counter and turn around."

Taking a deep breath, the guy did as he was told, stepping back and turning around.

Karen dropped the shutter and took a step back herself from the counter. As was normal with all PRT employees, she had undergone the lengthy induction process, which included being sprayed with containment foam. It was harmless, but mildly unpleasant; she had no intention of having that happen to her again.

"Sir," the guard told the skinny man, "you need to calm down. Now."

The skinny guy took in all four guards, in various poses of readiness, and sighed.

"Please," he told the guard. "You need to take me to someone who can tell me about powers."

His voice was calm, measured, matter-of-fact, but there was an undertone to it that bypassed Karen's cognitive centres and went straight to her hindbrain. _The guard needs to take him to someone who can tell him about powers._

The PRT guard nodded. "Yes, sir," he agreed. "I can do that." He turned to the other three guards. "Just taking this guy upstairs to see the science boys. Cover for me."

They headed for the elevators; Karen pulled up a window and typed in the code that would give the guard access to the right floor. The guy had to see someone who could tell him about powers, after all.

The elevator doors closed behind the guard, and the guy he was escorting. Karen raised the shutter once more and went back to her regular duties.

* * *

><p><em>I need to see Dad.<em>

She couldn't find him.

He wasn't at home, although she did find a mess. Bug eyesight was woeful, but she was getting better at understanding where every member of the Swarm was, and building topographical pictures out of that. A broken chair, the busted TV, and a jar of tomato sauce that had apparently been hurled at the wall. The flies loved that, and she let them swarm all over it. But she forbade them from laying eggs; this was her _house,_ after all.

It was too late for him to be at work, but the car wasn't in the driveway.

_Could he be at a friend's place?_

Slowly, painfully, she pulled up a memory of Dad's friends. Kurt and Lacey. Alexander. Others … Gerry, the Irishman.

But she didn't know where they _lived._

It was ironic; with her growing control over the Swarm, she could shift her consciousness to almost anywhere in the city in moments. All she had to do was congregate enough bugs in that area to give her lucidity. But she didn't know where to send them.

_I have to do something. Leave him a message. Let him know that I'm really alive._

But bugs could not manipulate anything as unwieldy as a pen or a pencil. She had a computer, upstairs, but even if she managed to get it turned on and a word file opened, she would then have to type out the message, and then somehow get him to read it.

And then she realised that the solution was staring her in the face. _So to speak._

The tomato paste had dried somewhat, but beetles managed to worry small chunks loose and carry them to a piece of paper on the table. She couldn't read what was on it, but the red tomato paste would show up clearly. The bugs deposited the crumbs of paste on the paper, then deliberately stepped on them, squashing them down. Making a line. Making a curve. More lines. More curves.

It was quite exhausting, focusing her attention so closely for so long, but she kept at it.

_I have to let him know. Make him understand._

* * *

><p>"You have to understand, sir, that the science of parahuman studies has not advanced a great deal since the days of Vikare," the man in the lab coat told him. His badge read CORBEN. "Given the huge variety of powers -"<p>

"But you've got the power classification system, don't you?" Danny interrupted.

"We do, sir," Corben agreed. "But that doesn't tell us _why_ people get powers, only _how, _and even then, it only tends toward a vague set of guidelines."

"How about powers themselves? How they work?" asked Danny, frustrated.

Corben shrugged. "We have a large body of knowledge, but the vast majority of it is based on theory and speculation. Quite literally, no two powersets are identical, unless the people triggered at the same time and place, and have some sort of close association. As for the case you posited; yes, it's been known for people to apparently die when they get powers. Some capes are able to form what look like ghosts. Some are able to speak at a distance, without being seen. Some can even create duplicates of their own bodies. All of that together, is it possible?" He took a deep breath. "Yes, sir, it's possible. Is it plausible, or even likely?" He shrugged. "I have no idea."

Danny's shoulders slumped. "So, after all that ... your best answer is that you don't know."

Corben nodded. "Without being able to get a first-hand look at the situation … well, yes." He paused, grimacing. "Uh, if I can say something without sounding too insensitive, sir … ?"

Danny rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. Something about possibly imagining the whole thing?"

A hesitation, then Corben nodded. "Uh, basically, sir. The human mind can play all sorts of tricks on us, especially if we're grieving."

Danny gritted his teeth. "I. Know." He did not enlighten the man, but the travails he had gone through after losing Anne-Rose … he'd nearly lost Taylor then, through sheer neglect. They had drifted so far apart. But he'd thought that they were mending things, coming back together.

And now ... _this._

He took off his glasses and swiped at his eyes. "Okay, I'm done here. Can you show me how to get back to the lobby?"

"At once, sir," the PRT guard told him. He led the way back toward the elevator. "I hope you learned what you needed to, sir." He paused. "Excuse me a moment, please, sir."

"Sure," Danny replied, stopping. He could hear the man mumbling inside his helmet, but the fully enclosed helmet didn't let him hear what was being said.

The PRT building was certainly busy, he noted. People moving here and there, phones ringing, conversations going on all around. He was actually a little surprised that the guard had been so obliging as to bring him up to this floor and let him talk to Corben.

The guard turned to look at him, or at least turned that reflective grey face-plate in his direction. "Uh, sir, who was your authorisation from again, sir? I'm afraid I've forgotten."

Danny frowned. "Authorisation? I just asked you to let me talk to someone who knows about powers."

The guard nodded. "Ah, of course. Thank you, sir." He went back to mumbling. And then, to Danny's consternation, he pulled the sidearm from his holster and pointed it directly at Danny. "Sir, please kneel on the ground with your hands behind your head. Do not speak, or I will shoot. I have been reliably informed that you do not hold any authorisation or clearance."

Danny opened his mouth to protest; the guard waved the pistol. "Do _not_ speak, sir."

Wisely, Danny shut his mouth, and knelt on the carpeted floor. At the same time, sirens erupted, blaring so loudly that even if he had wanted to speak, no-one could possibly have heard him. As ordered, he clasped his hands behind his neck.

_What the hell is going on?_

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>**uesday Evening**

* * *

><p>Piggot viewed the image of the man on the screen. There was, for obvious reasons, no sound.<p>

"_This_ is our Master?" she asked doubtfully. He hadn't even been wearing a costume, just rumpled clothing.

"This is him," acknowledged Major Travis. "When Captain Kelly noticed Fielding was out of position, he radioed the man to inquire of his location. Kelly was on the tenth floor, escorting this man back to the elevators." He flipped open a wallet he held in his hand. "ID has him as Daniel Hebert. We don't have a file on him."

"And he had no authorisation to be on that floor?" Piggot pressed.

"None whatsoever," Travis verified. "We've debriefed Fielding; he says that the man was causing a scene with our receptionist, and Fielding approached him. The man then asked to be allowed to speak to someone about how powers work, and Fielding thought that was a perfectly reasonable request. So he took the man upstairs. The guy asked Corben a whole string of questions about his dead daughter -"

The Director slapped her forehead. "Dead daughter? Dammit, of course. That Hebert guy, he's the father of the girl who died at Winslow yesterday."

Travis blinked. "Yeah. Now I remember. Damn, poor guy. Anyway, he just wanted to know about powers, if his daughter could really have triggered as a cape after she died. Because apparently he's been hearing her voice."

Piggot sighed. "Poor bastard might've been better off seeing a priest." She dragged her mind back to the current situation. "But how does this explain his ability to talk his way in to see Corben? That floor is restricted. The work Corben _does_ is classified."

Travis shrugged. "Master power. Anecdotal evidence indicates it's got a strong vocal component. Earshot only."

Piggot shivered. "Christ. Another Nice Guy."

Travis shook his head. "Not so much. We're not sure about the strength of the compulsion; Fielding _did_ hold him at gunpoint, once ordered to do so. And he never told anyone to do anything strictly against their well-being. He just asked them to tell him stuff he wanted to know. The guy's obviously distraught."

A frown. "Think he might have triggered over this? His daughter's death?"

"It would make a lot of sense." Travis scratched his chin. "Though there's one impression that I _am_ getting, which might complicate things quite a bit."

"What, _apart_ from prosecuting the guy whose daughter was killed in a school prank?" asked Piggot sarcastically. "What might that be, pray tell?"

Travis looked back at the screen, at the skinny man sitting listlessly in the cell. "I don't think he knows he's a Master."

Piggot stared at the screen as well. "Well, fuck."

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday Night<strong>

* * *

><p>Space Opera was the <em>shit.<em>

Greg was enjoying the hell out of it. The tips and tricks and cheat codes that he'd downloaded simply made it all the more fun. As he worked his way through the levels, he found himself getting into it in a way that he'd never been able to in that last game.

And then the hand went around his mouth from behind. _Again._

He froze, hoping that he wasn't about to wet himself.

"Greg," hissed the familiar voice, right next to his ear. "Do not make a noise. Nod if you understand me."

He nodded spasmodically.

"I need you to meet me outside," whispered Shadow Stalker. "We need to discuss matters. Ten minutes. Do you understand?"

He nodded again. The hand disappeared from around his mouth. He waited a long moment, then looked around.

There was no-one in the room, of course. The curtains were moving very slightly, as though a breeze had touched them.

_Holy shit. I'm going to meet Shadow Stalker. She thinks I'm cool enough to discuss matters with. Holy shit._

All of a sudden, Space Opera seemed to be a lot less important.

Getting up from his chair, he stretched, elaborately casually, even though there was no-one else in the room to see him. He strolled downstairs, pretending nonchalance, while his heart hammered at a thousand miles a minute.

His parents were watching TV, while his younger sister burbled in her playpen. They didn't seem to notice him. _Stealth check, successful._ All he had to do was ease into the kitchen, then out the back door -

"Greg." It was his father's voice.

He jumped violently at that. Had his parents been actually looking at him, they might have decided something was suspicious.

"Wh-what?" he stammered.

"You're goin' to the kitchen, get me a beer, huh?"

"I – uh – yeah – sure, Dad." he agreed. Hurrying into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and found a cold beer. Going back into the living room, he handed it to his father. "Here you go, Dad."

"Thanks, son."

"No worries, Dad." Greg strolled nonchalantly back into the kitchen; he unlocked the back door and eased it open. Stepping outside, he carefully pulled it shut again.

* * *

><p>Shadow Stalker waited impatiently in the darkness, watching the back door of the Veder household. <em>All I need to do is find out from Greg what he's said online and to the cops. If he's spread enough confusion, and hasn't mentioned me on the boards, then I can take care of him. He's a loose end. And played right, as a <strong>dead <strong>loose end, he'll serve my purposes._

She didn't even think twice about her willingness to murder an innocent boy to protect her own hide. The equation was simple; if others had to die for her to live, then so be it. If he wasn't strong or smart enough to see her coming or protect himself against her, then it was his own stupid fault.

After all, she'd already killed before. Even if it _was_ by accident.

The door opened, and he slipped out. She straightened slightly from her position in the shadow of the hedge, and beckoned. He walked straight toward her, trustingly, stupidly.

_A lamb to the slaughter._

* * *

><p>End of Part Five<p> 


End file.
